


Disociar

by Andixa



Series: Collected Sherlock drabbles and headcanon [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 12:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14378571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andixa/pseuds/Andixa
Summary: That’s it, he’s done.It’s been nearly a decade, whatever-it-is that he has with this ridiculous man; he’s put up with quite a lot if he says so himself, but John’s found his limit, and this is it.





	Disociar

That’s it, he’s done. 

It’s been nearly a decade, whatever-it-is that he has with this ridiculous man; he’s put up with quite a lot if he says so himself, but John’s found his limit, and this is it. 

The last several months have been a rollercoaster, starting with Sherlock’s not-quite-exile, then Rosie coming along, then--well, Mary, Sherlock using again, John’s shameful display in the morgue, followed by... the less said about Sherlock’s sister, the better. John has firm plans to document it all on his blog, or at least as many half-truths as he can get away with. That’s all well and good.

No, what John’s experiencing right now is the tail end of the storm, the cherry on top of this Holmesian nightmare. He’s tired. He’s hungry. He’s been surrounded by the Holmes family all day. The beer is shit, and the little finger-foods are weird. Up to this point, the day has been all pomp and circumstance, with the Royal attention necessary to reestablish Sherlock’s good name; the prick had gone and gotten himself knighted perforce (Sir Sherlock Holmes? Good god.) There were misty tears from Mummy Holmes and Mycroft’s stupid fat smug face -- and now, of course, the star-studded, beaurocrat-invested after party. 

Now he’s staring at Sherlock Holmes (William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Sir William Sherlock Scott Holmes) occupying a dark little corner of the parquet dance floor with a beautiful woman, and Sir William Sherlock Scott Holmes is dancing. In public. With Anthea (not her real name). Three inch heels put her at just below his not-actually-that-impressive height as she leans against him, right into his personal space -- doesn’t Sherlock have a thing about personal space? Or does he just seem like the kind of person who would have a thing about personal space? 

They’re not kissing, oh no, John could deal with that. He’s seen Sherlock charm women before -- it’s not natural, it usually involves smiling with too many teeth and something with the eyebrows that John can never figure out, but he’s seen that enough by now. No, Sherlock’s just staring off into the space past her shoulder, like he can hear something interesting in the swivel of her feet. Their weight shifts together in what John, however uneducated, can still awkwardly identify as a tango-- the racy one where the dancers do complicated things with their feet-- and, he thinks, how is this his life? 

“Is that… I don’t… What?!”

“Mm,” Mycroft hums on his right, “yes, that started two months after I took her on. They won’t admit which one of them first suggested enrolling in classes, but the Argentinian policía were extremely happy to solve a series of high-profile murders one month prior. I’m sure you can deduce...” 

Across the room, Anthea’s heel swivel-kicked a member of Parliament in the shin.


End file.
